


Hours/Minutes

by signalbeam



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Community: badbadbathhouse, Domestic, Drabbles, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-16
Updated: 2009-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signalbeam/pseuds/signalbeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Variations on Sunday morning. Insert cassette?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. HOURS [A-side]

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the badbadbathhouse prompt: _Might I please have the Sunday morning routine for the couple of your choice? Dialogue optional. Can take place at any point in their relationship, although Anon is partial to a post-game, grown-up setting._

**HOURS** [A-side]

 _tracklist_  
1\. Hours I Spent Alone [Sunday Morning remix] _680_  
2\. burning the midnight oil [we firefighters remix] _658_  
3\. THE BACK OF YOUR HAND [the orange prince sits on the wall remix] _488_  
4\. Play the hand life gives you [the backyard remix] _412_  
5\. I’m only happy when it rains [foggy city remix] _257_

 

 **>** PLAY

1\. Hours I spent alone [Sunday Morning remix]

Yosuke slept until ten or eleven on Sundays. Souji didn’t begrudge Yosuke a few hours of sleep. Yosuke worked long hours as a producer of an independent label, and parceled sleep out in two-to-three hour naps throughout the day during the week. Souji had long gotten used to Yosuke’s lack of any meaningful schedules: from his hideously irregular hours through college, then the long nights and long days as an intern at a recording company, then the steadier hours as a worker, and the return to chaos as full-blown producer.

Souji preferred schedules, flexible but not breakable. He kept a similar schedule through all the years he moved from one city to another, and in college, drew up a time table and carefully mapped out class length, studying times, when he ate his meals. He went to bed at eleven each night, and slept until five. At five ten, he got out of bed, taking care to not disturb Yosuke, who didn’t come back until one, and went to the kitchen to grind coffee beans. The cats wound themselves around his feet, and demanded to be fed; and, feeling lenient, he popped open a can and spooned it into their bowls. Coffee was done by five eighteen; he let it sit until five twenty-two while he cleaned out the litterbox and picked up the papers.

Between five thirty and six fifteen, he drank coffee and read the papers. By six-thirty, he had cut out a few articles he wanted to save, circled some articles his clients would probably be talking about later, and at six-forty the cats were sitting on the table and on top of the articles he had just cut out. If Yosuke saw this, he would yell at the cats and then complain that he sounded like his mother, but Souji liked having the cats within easy petting distance, and spent the next half hour fooling around with them, even getting the laser pointer and laughing as the cats tore through the house chasing a little red dot. He had always wanted children, but he had Nanako’s kids to mess with, and Yukiko’s son to watch over, and Kanji’s three daughters to spoil, and two cats of his own.

At seven-thirty, he ate a piece of bread and walked to the shopping district to buy fresh produce for breakfast. Rise’s grandmother still ran Marukyu, and he stopped to talk with her until eight ten. Then he went fishing in the Samegawa. Yukiko’s son, a curt, yet polite and pleasant, boy, dropped by and gave Souji an envelope from Yukiko; a thank you, he said, for fixing the Inn’s roof the week before. Souji initially thought it was money. It turned out that it was a set of metal bookmarks, engraved with images of gods and spirals.

He was back home by nine-twenty, and prepared the ingredients for the day’s first meal. At nine-fifty, he went to brush his teeth and wash his face. When he finished, he woke Yosuke, who hit him in the shoulder no fewer than three times before realizing who was shaking him awake.

Yosuke did the dishes after breakfast, and rolled his eyes as Souji recounted his morning. “Uh-huh, partner, I know. I gotta get up earlier and be _productive_.”

“I didn’t say I was being productive,” he said.

“At least I don’t conk out for an hour after lunch.”

“Naps improve productivity in the afternoon.”

“Uh-huh,” said Yosuke. “Well, I can think of other things you can do besides sleep.” And he raised an eyebrow suggestively. “One of the girls—”

“Women.”

“—women, sure, fine. You feminist. So this one woman talked about something she was doing to her boyfriend and I want to test it out.” He checked his phone for the time. “Now, before you start cooking lunch.”

“I think it’s time for that nap.”

“Soooouuujiiiiii.”

“Give me ten minutes,” he said, which wasn’t a deterrent for Yosuke, who tackled Souji before he could even get out of the kitchen.

 

2\. burning the midnight oil [we firefighters remix]

Just past midnight, Chie’s cell phone went off. The last thing Chie said before she left was, “Oh my god, I have to get to the station now, I’ll be back by morning, don’t worry the kids, okay, bye.” And then she blitzed out the door, pulling on her jacket and hopping as she tried to get her shoes on properly as she left. The cars headlights were bright against the rain-slick pavement. Chie didn’t turn on the sirens until she had driven all the way down the road.

Of course the kids would worry. Inaba was a safe town, safer than most; but there was still the ghost of murders and violence, and Souji did enough work with the police to know that in everyone’s bones, there was a small, little person who hated and was hated, who was both afraid and feared. It was almost two in the morning before he could go back to sleep, and when he woke, it was eight, and the sky was still as grey and dreary as it had been the day before. He went downstairs, and the younger of their two children was watching a cartoon on the television. Souji made small talk, watched a bit of TV, and then pulled out his laptop to check the local news. The report hadn’t been put up yet, and the news article was a total of four sentences long. Wholly unsatisfying. At eight-thirty, he made breakfast, and sent his son to go wake up his big brother. At eight-forty, the elder son said, “Where’s Mom?”

“Working,” Souji said, and poured everyone orange juice.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “She’s not in your room. I went to look for her, and she wasn’t there.”

“I did say she was working, not sleeping.”

“Is she going to drop us off to karate?”

“I will,” said Souji. He was still tired. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, he thought a bit ruefully. Having two children made him realize that. The doorbell rang, and he went to answer it. It was Aoki, Chie’s partner at work.

“Long night,” Aoki explained. “Big mess, lots of injuries and casualties. Some yakuza morons brought guns, and we spent three hours shooting at each other.”

“Is she all right?” Souji asked, standing on his tiptoes to get a better view of the car. Chie was sleeping, head against the glass. He couldn’t see anything more than her head and shoulders.

“One of the detectives got shot. Shirogane, you know her? She’s fine. Flesh wound. But Seta-senpai lost it, and fell asleep at the hospital. Came in this morning, and found her still there. Thought I’d drop her off for you.”

“Thank you,” said Souji. “I can take things from here.”

“At least let me hold the door, Seta-san.”

“Go talk with the kids,” Souji said. “They’ll be glad to see you.”

Souji knocked on the car window until Chie stirred. She blinked at Souji. There was blood pressed into the hem of her shirt.

“Hi,” she said.

“You forgot to call,” he said.

“Sorry. I was really… tired.”

Souji considered saying many things in reply to that. He settled for, “Open the door.”

The door opened. He took her hand, and pulled her up, his other arm settling around her waist.

“I _can_ walk on my own,” she said.

“Of course,” he said, and held onto her even tighter. “Okay.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Naoto is, too.”

“I know.”

“Isn’t it time for breakfast? I’m _famished_. Hope you made something good.”

“I did.” He fingered her hair, which smelled like gunpowder and smoke; a fire burning and sweat and sterile hospital beds. “I missed you.”

“Me, too,” she said, and kissed him, lightly, on the cheek. “Aoki’s staying for breakfast,” she said, and pulled away from him. She squeezed his hand before heading up their driveway and back into their house. “Don’t forget to shave.”

 

3\. THE BACK OF YOUR HAND [the orange prince sits on a wall remix]

How the Inn works is a mystery to Yosuke. He knows, objectively, that his wife is the manager, that there are forms and forms and taxes and orders and a lot of talking that goes into it, but he’s never been a part of the Inn, not in the way he thought he would be when he married into the Amagi family. He has his own job, too, and the mere fact galls his in-laws to an incredible extent. Yukiko thinks it’s a good idea that he has a job; someone here, she says, has to talk with ordinary people.

His wife wakes up early and goes to the Inn first thing in the morning, so Yosuke often wakes alone, or to the sight of her changing, or the sight of her leaving. After an hour or so, he, too, goes to the Inn. There’s no such thing as weekends for Yukiko: she works through the entire week, and Yosuke makes sure to help out a little during the busy seasons. They have breakfast courtesy of the kitchen staff, who all smile a bit tepidly at him. Yukiko’s only acknowledgement is a nod.

Starting around eight, the guests make arrangements to leave. Yukiko takes care of that, working on a computer by the desk as she checks people in and out. The check outs are done by ten, and by eleven, people are coming in. Yosuke wanders around outside restlessly, and thinks that this isn’t at all how expected his life to turn out; talks with the staff and acts as another set of ears for Yukiko to keep tabs on the staff’s moods and thoughts. It would be so easy for him to tell her that the staff thinks she’s working too hard or that they think she’s not working hard enough; but that’d be a horrible thing to do, and he tells her the truth when she asks for it. This lasts the rest of the morning. He helps prepare the rooms, even when the staff mumble in embarrassment for making the manager’s husband do such menial tasks. It’s okay. Yukiko won’t let him do anything else.

By noon, the cooks shoo Yukiko out of the kitchens and the maids and staff are telling her to relax. She’s meeting with the mayor of the town at one, and until then, she and Yosuke sit in the back and talk a little, but they mostly sit in silence and touch. Her hands are cold, but they always are, and her eyes are tired, but they always have been, ever since she took over the Inn years and years ago. Yosuke thinks, wildly, that it might have been better if he was more like Chie, or if he was a silver prince on a white horse. She asks for nothing from him; and maybe she’s never had any need for him at all.

 

4\. Play the hand life gives you [the backyard remix]

Naoto was of the opinion that everyday should start early, even Sundays. Before Kanji woke up, she had already gotten dressed and instructed her children in the art of admiring moths and butterflies and ants and wasps. They looked, she thought, more afraid than awed, but fear and awe went hand-in-hand. All in good time. All in good time.

By eight o’clock, the kids were looking droopy-eyed again, so she took them back to the house, and made breakfast. It was a weekly trial. Naoto was confident she had escaped the curse of horrid cooking that plagued all the women of the former-Investigation Team, but not so confident that she was a _wonderful_ cook, either. Competent, yes. Amazing? Only if she was baking. No child of hers was going to eat cake first thing in the morning.

Kanji was up at eight-thirty, and, much to her embarrassment, walked right into her recital of _Nibelungenlied_. Then he sat down and ate, and, after prodding the kids a little, got them to do something besides look sulky and whine that he should’ve cooked.

They never would’ve turned out this way if Kanji wouldn’t indulge them so much, Naoto said, and popped a piece of French toast into her mouth.

Kanji grinned, and said, Well, I’m not the one who takes ‘em out on morning romps. You’re the one spoilin’ them.

Naoto wasn’t the spoiling kind of parent. To prove it, she sent all of the kids upstairs to study. Studying, at least, gave her and Kanji some time alone before Kanji went to open the textiles shop for a few hours, and before she felt the need to start working on her case files. Normally they sat together at the table, dishes still unwashed and newspapers sprawled out on the surface. Kanji liked hearing about where Naoto took the kids at six in the morning; liked hearing about what their kids were learning, liked being a father. It suited him, really, much more than it had suited Naoto. It was like all he had to do was say a few words, and they’d obey. Go do the dishes, help me make lunch, stop poking your little sister in the eye and work, damn it!

In the quieter hours of the morning, they sat together and did nothing that was expected of them except enjoy each others’ company and, on occasion, yell at the kids to stop playing video games upstairs and study, damn it.

 

5\. I’m only happy when it rains [foggy city remix]

It’s raining, which means she might be here again tonight. She comes only on rainy nights, only is there long enough to twist his hair and laugh at him and tell him things that might mean something, if they weren’t so cryptic.

Adachi’s not afraid of her. He doesn’t want her, anyway, frigid bitch. Won’t let him touch her, won’t let him do anything except seethe and curse and thrash. Sometimes she touches him, but never where he wants her to. Her hands are cold and eyes the color of murder. She sits in his room all night and is gone by morning. She leaves presents for him, like a cat might: little trinkets and playthings that make his stomach crawl. Pictures of his boss, recordings of Namatame in his sleep, shaky video footage of Dojima’s nephew in a bookstore; all of those show up on his kitchen table.

He keeps everything, but not because she gives them to him. She asks why, once, early in the morning when it’s almost dawn. He says it’s because it’s because she’s a sick fuck and one day he’ll have her arrested.

She laughs.

“Go on,” she says. “Handcuff me.”

He grabs her hand, but it’s like touching stone, and her arm remains there, immobile and unmoving, no matter how hard he tries to force them together. Then she pushes him down, sinks towards him, and vanishes.

He dreams of her falling into him every night, and spends morning after morning afraid that she might be inside of his skin.


	2. MINUTES [B-side]

**MINUTES** [B-side]

 _tracklist_  
1\. Roulette [Pyro Jack remix] _038_  
2\. LIKE the back of your hand [remix: the green prince in his green cravat] _421_  
3\. Hours I spent alone [Jack Frost remix] _131_

 **>** PLAY

1\. Roulette [Pyro Jack remix]

Today is another morning. Souji is sitting in the Velvet Room, talking with Igor about fusion and trying to argue his way into getting Bufudyne onto Pyro Jack. Never going to happen, Margaret decides, and files her nails.

 

2\. Like the back of your hand [remix: the green prince in his green cravat]

Chie had slept over at Yukiko’s house so many times that by the time she moved in, she half-expected to know every inch of the place like the back of her hand. It turned out that there were many hidden spots that she had never dreamed might be there: a back room full of Yukiko’s parents’ belongings, before they retired and moved into a house in the residential district; an old, unused outhouse with an upside down toilet in the middle of the room; the place where the Inn accumulated art and scrolls.

Yukiko didn’t like waking up after Chie, but Chie insisted that it was just part of training. She was on the force. She was practically programmed to wake up when she heard someone knocking on the door or window or calling her cell. Yukiko said that was unfair. (Chie never found out why.) Either way, Yukiko didn’t complain about it too much when Chie woke her in the mornings, especially not when there were guests kicking up a fuss, or someone from the town demanding to have a talk at the crack of dawn.

When Yukiko didn’t need to wake up early, Chie sometimes spent an hour watching Yukiko sleep and trying to memorize all the details she could. How many times did she breathe, how many times did she shift under the blankets, how many of their fingers were entwined? That in itself was pretty exhausting. She’d drift back into sleep, and then a hand would be on her shoulder and a voice would be calling her to wake.

It was a good thing it was Sunday, she thought, and rolled onto Yukiko, even as Yukiko tried to push her off. They ended up tangled together in a mess of overlapping arms and legs and twisted sheets that left Chie’s back bare and legs covered, and Yukiko saying about how she really needed to get up soon. Chie had her head on Yukiko’s chest, and she could feel her head rising and falling, could hear the softness of Yukiko’s breath; could feel the firmness of Yukiko’s grip on her back and the affection plain in the way Yukiko held her.

Many things were surprising, but waking up with Yukiko wasn’t. Maybe she always expected to wake up next to best friend, or had been preparing for this when she was a child. Either way, it never felt new or exciting to wake up next to Yukiko: only comforting and steady and good.

 

3\. Hours I spent alone [Jack Frost remix]

Rise takes Souji’s glasses when she goes on tours. She likes having something physical there, something that’s more than a voice or letters texted through miles and miles of sea or pixels on a screen, and likes having Souji the Person with her more than having Souji the Voice or Souji’s words or Souji the Voicemail, and having his glasses is nice, too, in its own way. Even so, the first thing she reaches for in the morning is her phone. It’s just past eight o’clock at night in Tokyo, so she goes ahead and calls Souji.

They talk for a while. Their conversations all end the same way. Next time I go on tour, you should come with me.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, even though he never does.

REWIND  
 **>** EJECT


End file.
